Fists on the Red Planet

Fists on the Red Planet Part 4

A man in a conspicuously well-kept suit watched as Dawson Hale climbed into the ring. The corners of his eyes narrowed in consternation as the raucous crowd called out his name. Tapping his silver headed cane on the worn floorboards, the man approached the same wool sweatered trainer that had thrown Hale out of the building three days earlier. This unusual fellow was none other than George Malcom, patriarch of Malcom Trading and owner of Bertram Galillee. Malcom's greatest business asset was this burly giant. When the brute had arrived at Titan with charges of assault and murder of law enforcement officers as well as possession of drugs, he was guaranteed a life sentence in the ore mines. But George saw a better use for this one, and George Malcom was a man who knew the value of things. Bertram fought, and fought well, while George Malcom bet on the fights. He smiled thinking of the money made from Bertram. The finest windfall profits he had ever made, all off the books of course.

Reaching out with his cane, he nudged the trainer in the ribs. The man flinched and turned to Mr. Malcom.

"Sir," he said.

"My boy," said Malcom, pointing at Hale with his cane, "who is that man?"

The trainer averted his gaze to look at Hale, then turned back.

"That's Dawson Hale, sir," replied the trainer. "Quite the fighter in his time. Quite the known adventurer now."

Malcom nodded towards the crowd.

"They seem to know him pretty well. And Bertram even acts familiar with him," said Malcom.

"I should say that he does sir," said the trainer. "The two fought years ago."

"Did they now?" said Malcom, eyeing Hale. "Tell me, who won?"

The trainer smiled, "No one," was his reply. "When Hale fought, Bertram stepped out of the ring. A disqualification. Officially, Hale would be the winner. But we fighters, no sir, we don't consider the fight done until someone is on the floor. I know Bertram doesn't consider this finished. I'll reckon Hale feels the same sir."

"I see," Malcom remarked, a well-groomed, white eyebrow raised. "So tell me then son, which one will win this time?"

The trainer leered at the executive, "Bertram Galillee ain't going to be beat sir."

"Good man," murmured the business man.

He had made a rather sizable investment on the big monster. And would see that investment pay off. The two men turned their attentions back to the ring, as the announcer called for last bets. Bertram and Hale went to their respective corners. Then, the bell rang.

#

Hale and Bertram edged into the center of the ring. Hale keeping his hands close, Bertram keeping his stance loose. The two combatants crept in closer, closer, almost touching gloves. The crowd fell to deathly silence now, pregnant with the anticipation. The two warriors did not move. Staring each other down on that red stained canvas, they were as a marble sculpture of the gods themselves. A watcher less versed the sport of combat would have been perplexed.

"What's happening?" whispered Weeval. "No one's moving."

"Hush," hissed Crorggus.

It was once said that on Earth, centuries ago, two masters of martial arts stood against each other. Both men refused to move, waiting for the critical flaw that would lead to the destruction of the other. The two masters waited for five hours, motionless. Then, the fight ended in a single move. Any man experienced in combat took such tales to heart. Even a man such as Bertram. He was big, but he was no fool. His lazy fighting style and large size were but a ruse, a means to goad his opponents into making the mistake of trying to swing for an opening that was not there. He knew that Hale would not be so reckless.